


Acceptance; And What Comes With It

by MarbleAide



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coping, Loss, M/M, Mention of Drug Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarbleAide/pseuds/MarbleAide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's gone, leaving Sherlock to deal with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acceptance; And What Comes With It

When John’s heart finally stops, Sherlock finds he isn’t breathing either. He also hasn’t blinked in a while. He simply stares at John’s body, watches his eyes darken, until Scotland Yard arrives. It isn’t until Lestrade is behind him, pulling Sherlock to his feet that he realizes he hasn’t moved in sometime either. At first he doesn’t even hear the words coming from Lestrade’s mouth, but suddenly he focuses on the moving lips and the hand gripping his shoulder just a little too tightly. He focuses in and—

 

“Sherlock. I’m…I’m sorry.”

 

Right. Of course.

 

His expression is flat and he is still staring. Staring and silent until he sees the inspector’s face contort into a bit of confusion. Sherlock just barely hears his own name in his ears which, for some odd reason, he finds there to be a faint ringing in them. He blinks, finally, and looks the inspector dead in the eyes, mirroring with his own expression of doubt. He licks his lips and, for the first time in so many minutes, speaks.

 

“ _What_?”

 

—-

 

An officer drives him home even though he insisted it was not needed or necessary. Even so, he finds himself in the back of a police car after Lestrade was done questioning him. Thankfully, no one attempted to put a blanket over his shoulders this time.

 

The flat is quiet when he enters, which isn’t all that uncommon. The feeling of how quiet, on the other hand, is. Sherlock is suddenly very aware of how still and silent everything is. It is, in a way, unnerving. Yet, he ignores it and pulls off his coat. Sharp eyes see that there are dark spots scattered around the sleeves and his mind quickly fills in the blank with ‘dried blood’. He doesn’t remember that it belonged to John. Part of him simply forgot and part of him simply doesn’t want to admit such a thing.

 

He makes a mental note to get it cleaned tomorrow, but it doesn’t stick and in the morning he will have forgotten. Right now, however, he doesn’t really care. He’s not tired, but he finds himself removing layer after layer of clothing until he is naked enough to fall into his bed comfortably and, without a second thought, he falls asleep.

 

—-

 

In the morning, Mycroft is sitting on his couch, umbrella in hand. Mrs. Hudson obviously let him in. Right now, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care at all and decides to ignore his brother instead of trying to verbally insult him enough that he might leave. The strategy doesn’t work as he intended.

 

“I heard what happened.” His brother began, face already fallen with a look of practiced grimace. Sherlock made sure his back was turned as he rolled his eyes. “I am sorry, truly, Sherlock. John—“

 

“John knew what this life style meant. He knew the dangers. People die every day. That’s what happens. John was no different. No need to be sorry about it all…” Sherlock shuffled around for a moment, as if lost, before finally settling down with his violin now in hand. “You have come here to make sure I am alright with the entire situation.” His eyes looked up from the violin strings, locking with Mycroft’s own. “I can assure you, I am fine. Now, if you will kindly leave.”

 

Mycroft was not convinced, just as he always was. And, just as they always did, his feelings made themselves plain to read on his face. Sherlock ignored him, turning his attention down to his instrument.

 

“Sherlock, I realize—“

 

“Good day, Mycroft.”

 

“Sher—“

 

“I said,” Sherlock pulled out a long, sharp note from the violin. “Good. Day.”

 

Whatever else Mycroft might have wanted to say was drown out by the broken notes now being plucked from the instrument. After another few minutes of attempting conversation, Mycroft finally gave up and left.

 

The flat wasn’t quiet anymore, so a feeling of emptiness started to creep in and take its place.

 

—-

 

The funeral service takes place three days later, Mrs. Hudson informs him, but Sherlock only looks at her, thanking her for the information, and does not go. He does not know why, really, and just decides not to. That morning, he gets phone calls from both Mycroft and Lestrade. Both of which go unanswered. The same thing happens in the evening with the same results.

 

In the days that come, Sherlock does little else but shuffle around the flat. No cases present themselves, so he finds there is nothing to do but bore around the living room. Once a day, Mrs. Hudson drops off some tea and random cakes and toasts. He never looks long enough to read her worried expression further than figuring that it is ‘worry’ and not something else. He doesn’t touch either the tea or food until it is cold and his stomach decides he must have something.

 

No calls came for him in those days that past. Days turned into weeks and Sherlock grew more and more irritated as time went by. He read papers and watched news reports, knowing there were cases that should be called to his attention. Cases he knew Lestrade should be calling him for. But nothing came and Sherlock’s own twisted pride was too strong for him to call and ask.

 

It was when he found himself staring at John’s closed bedroom door that he knew he had to get back into a case. His fingers were almost on the knob before he withdrew to pick up his phone and call Lestrade.

 

—-

 

“Sherlock, really, I appreciate you wanting to help, but—“

 

“It has been over a month, Inspector. As I’ve told everyone else a number of times, I am fine. I’m here to do my job.”

 

“I understand that.”

 

“Apparently you do not. You’ve had four people murdered in the past week with no leads and you are telling me to go back home?”

 

“…Sherlock.”

 

“Show me the bodies, Inspector.”

 

—-

 

The case went by quiet and quick. Sherlock did his job properly and efficiently, just as he always did, but something seemed off about it all. Anderson stepped out of his way of his own accord. Donovan didn’t meet his eye. Only Lestrade spoke to him, always very carefully. Always with some sort of softness. It irritated Sherlock to no end, making him want this case done all the sooner so he could once more withdraw his presence from the idiots around him.

 

When it finally came to a close, Sherlock made his way back to his flat with mixed emotions of satisfaction and lose. It didn’t make any sense what so ever.

 

No one was in the flat to welcome him back.

 

He didn’t notice his mistake until he was halfway through texting out his message of ‘Pick up milk’ to John. His fingers hovered over the keys as his mind caught up to his habit so he could correct himself. With only a sharp sigh of irritation in his own slip up, he snapped his phone shut and moved on.

 

He made a mental note to delete John’s number when he got a chance.

 

He never did.

 

—-

 

The bedroom door stayed closed, yet Sherlock found his eyes hovering towards it constantly. No one ever came by to pick up his stuff. No one seemed to feel the need. The room simply sat, unopened and untouched just as John left it the morning before he never came back.

 

Sherlock’s fingers itched.

 

It wasn’t until the cigarette was between his lips and lit that he noticed what he was doing. He took a deep inhale and remembered the sharp taste of nicotine on his tongue. Recalled the harsh smell of ashes and smoke like an old friend long gone.

 

No one was there to stop him. Slowly, the itch subsided as he relaxed into the couch, finishing off the first to light up a second.

 

His line of vision fell on the empty armchair that sat across from him in the living room. A two month old newspaper still sat half-hazardly folded on the arm, untouched just like the room that belonged to the same man. With this image caught in his gaze and floating in his head, Sherlock fell asleep.

 

—-

 

For days on end, Sherlock would see no other person. He stayed by himself and wandered around, reading or sleeping or simply staring into space. He only ate when it was totally necessary, when his stomach protested too much and threatened him to dry-heave if it was left empty. He ventured outside only when he needed to. Lestrade only called so often, with or without a case claiming to just be ‘checking in’. Mycroft attempted to do so also, but Sherlock refused to answer those calls.

 

At one point in time, he even found himself ignoring cases and Lestrade. Every time he took one, the lost feeling afterwards grew. It never felt right, like the case never truly closed and the thrill of it all died. Sherlock grew bored and, as a result, refused to even attempt.

 

Soon enough, the itch came back, rising from his finger tips to tingle up the rest of his arms. The cigarettes did nothing to take it away anymore.

 

—-

 

One day he found an old needle.

 

The itch disappeared when he held it. And, for now, that was enough.

 

—-

 

When Lestrade knocked, Mrs. Hudson let him in. They exchanged casualties before she gestured for him to go upstairs, commenting on how she hasn’t heard a peep out of him in a few days. Lestrade felt his mouth go dry as he climbed the staircase up.

 

The inspector found Sherlock after a few minutes of searching and ignored calls of his name. The man was standing just inside the entrance to John’s old room.  Just standing there, silent and still, staring at the walls.

 

“Sherlock…” The inspector started off softly at first, moving forward with caution as he was not sure how Sherlock would react to his intrusion. “Sherlock, please, I need you to turn around for me.” It wasn’t until he was only a few feet away that he saw what Sherlock held in his hand. “Sherlock…”

 

The broken remains of a syringe were clutched tightly in his hand. Glass shards sticking out of pale skin, digging deeper as that grip tightened, cutting into flesh as blood welded up and dripped down, staining the floor below as it pool near Sherlock’s bare feet.

 

As Lestrade called his name once more, Sherlock’s only reaction was to squeeze that mess of glass and metal and blood even more. The inspector stepped forward quickly, taking Sherlock’s arm in hand and practically ripped the mess from his fingers. It was only than that Sherlock let his hold on it fall.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re—“

 

“John.”

 

The name was said in a whisper, broken and almost too quiet to hear.

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed under Lestrade’s hold. After another few seconds, the man turned around. It was the first time in a long time that the inspector had actually seen the other. His eyes were red rimmed and heavy with dark circles. Pale skin seemed even paler now and the sharp angles of the man’s face were even more pronounced, showing off the lack of nutrition. He looked broken and beaten and ready to fall.

 

“He’s…he’s gone. Isn’t he? John…”

 

Sherlock collapsed so suddenly that Lestrade almost didn’t catch him. They both crumbled to the floor under Sherlock’s weight with the inspector’s arms wrapped around Sherlock’s person, trying to support his frame as the body and mind crumbled.

 

He wasn’t sure if the sounds he was hearing were choked out breathes or sobs. But, in this moment, it didn’t really matter. He ignored the sounds and just held him, knowing that if he let go he wouldn’t be sure Sherlock would ever be able to get up again. And so they sat. In front of John’s open bedroom, with his crisply made bed, dirty socks on the floor, a jumper thrown over the desk chair, and the man he left behind broken in the doorway.

 

—-

 

Mycroft’s car was there to pick him up after he showered, dressed, and ate something. The thought of calling a cab crossed his mind, but he knew that would do no good. Mycroft would be frustrated and he would end up not going. So he took up Mycroft’s offer and, with only a second of hesitation, stepped into the car.

 

The drive was a short one, only about twenty minutes outside of town. Neither brother said anything to the other and barely even looked at one another until they stopped. It was Mycroft who broke the silence.

 

“We’ll wait here. Just…take your time.”

 

Five minutes past before Sherlock finally opened the door to step out of the car. He found the grave easy enough. A simply headstone of granite, nothing fancy at all with a name, dates, and the words ‘Beloved Son and Brother’ carved into the face. A small bouquet of dying flowers lay beside it.

 

It is here that Sherlock’s mouth goes dry and his throat closes up. It is here that, for a long moment, he gets angry at this grave. This grave that is so simple and so easily unrecognizable from the rest of others so like it sitting in the same yard, untouched and forgotten by those who should care. Sherlock wanted someone to yell at, to scream at, because this was John’s grave and John’s headstone and he should have had something better than this. Something bigger and special because this was John’s.

 

_John’s._

 

Sherlock’s legs gave out on their own, sending him falling to his knees with fists pounding on hard earth and soft grass. As his anger peaked, he did shout. He yelled until he lost all his breathe and his throat grew sore. He yelled for someone to hear his frustration. For someone to care. But no one was around to do so.

 

As the world grew silent, Sherlock blinked and looked up, staring directly at the name once more. At the years right below it and the line that was far too short in between. He didn’t realize he was crying until the taste of salt stung on the tip of his tongue.

 

“John.” He said the name and felt the pain bloom in his chest. He shouldn’t have to. It shouldn’t have been him.

 

“John…” He repeated it, hoping the sting would go away, but it stuck in his chest, stabbing him right in the heart just to make it hurt even more. “Why did you—why did—“ He was choking now, on his own words and sobs as his body shook heavily around him with all the unfamiliar feelings of lose and dread and sorrow filling his body.

 

It took a few minutes to drive all that pain back down so he could speak. He still couldn’t get the stutter out of his voice.

 

“You…you go and die like that. Let me deal with all these other idiots!” He shouted, glaring at the name on the headstone. “With all this left over mess of questions and sympathies and—and—“

 

His words died on his tongue alongside his anger. Around him, the wind blew and he could smell the rain coming with it. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to stop the tears from falling further. The ache in his chest only grew.

 

“I—I can’t…can’t do this anymore, John. I can’t do this without you. “ He wanted to wake up. He wanted to be wrong. He wanted that name to change to someone else so everything could be normal again. “Why should I do this if you’re not here anymore? Why should I keep…keep saving people if I couldn’t save _you_?”

 

He choked on the next intake of breathe.

 

“ _Why did you have to leave me all alone again?_ ”

 

After the rain began to fall and an hour turned into two, Mycroft finally came for him, umbrella high over head. Sherlock let his brother pull him up and take him by hand back to the car. He did not take the towel offered to him as they drove off, away from the graveyard and the buried remains of the only man Sherlock ever came to call a friend.

 

For the rest of the trip back to an empty 221B Baker Street, Sherlock stared out the window, eyes glazed over and unfocused at the gray sky.

 

Just as he was before John came along, Sherlock knew he was going to be totally alone once more.

 

But, this time, he would forever remember those moments of being with someone else. Someone who cared. And, with those memories, the pain in his chest would always be there.

His heart ache forever a reminder of what John left behind and, now, what remained.  


End file.
